Sight
by mikechenwriter
Summary: A strange entity in a wrecked Starfleet science vessel causes Data and Picard to debate informing the family of the vessel's dead crew - and for Data to question the nature of memory and family.


I am alone. Stuck in limbo, a black silent void with no shape or form.

Then they arrive.

I don't recognize them at first, or notice much of anything really, even after the lights come on. It takes several seconds for the random thoughts to quiet and form into coherent ideas: _I may be the only one here. Where is here? Who am I?_

 _Why don't I know that?_

Illumination doesn't clarify where I am. It just changes what I see. First comes a searing white, a different kind of blindness. Then shapes emerge, out of focus and out of reach. At best I recognize three humanoid beings standing around a dim room, a lot of grays and whites painted in between the blurry shadows. They hesitate, then slowly walk in, broad angled colors above black trousers, two of them in yellow and one in a dark shade of red.

Uniforms.

 _Starfleet_ uniforms.

I don't know if I actually smiled, but at least inside, I tried to. A memory, a definite, fully formed memory with all of the blanks filled in: Starfleet, the exploration and defense division of the United Federation of Planets.

And my former employer, though I can't recall my actual job or where I served.

Other memories are locked inside my brain, bubbling just beneath the surface. What else can trigger them?

The officers examine the space, waving their devices at different corners of the room. I try to focus in on details, but every time fatigue washes over me and all I want to do is shut down, take a rest, regain my strength.

But I tell myself to keep fighting, to stay present. The limbo has been my home for too long, and now a rescue team is here, just meters away. I watch, waiting until they're within earshot.

The three officers take their time surveying the far end of the room. They're meticulous, going from left to right, and as they approach, my vision remains hazy—that part hasn't changed at all—but I can see that the red-clad one is female. She is moving towards my corner, and as she turns to look my direction, I finally say something.

"Help me." My voice is weak and crackled, like an infection has ravaged my throat. Which very well may be the case. In fact, that's what I prefer. Infections can be cured. I imagine damage to the throat and windpipe might call for an uglier recovery process when compared to Starfleet Medical's army of antibiotics.

The female officer turns but I can't make out her facial expressions. In fact, I can barely hear, though I call out again, a second and a third time. She steps my way, hand waving the device, and I can tell that she's searching for me.

I must be buried under scrap. The room, the facility—or is it a ship?—it's difficult to tell with my blurry vision, but there are different shades of gray and patches of black sprinkled across the room. No color, at least no seemingly active panels. Damage, perhaps, or something that caused power loss and isolation. I force out another call, and she leans over, device beeping as she waves it over me, and her eyes lock in.

That much I can tell, despite the hazy view.

Her device—a tricorder, I recall now—is probably doing a medical scan. I realize that though I want to wave, I can't move. Am I covered in debris? Maybe, but I can't even flex a finger or wiggle a toe. In fact, I feel nothing: no pain, no tension, no sensations at all.

I take back preferring an infection. Give me some assurance that I won't need a bionic spine. "Help me," I say again. My voice is getting scratchier, spawning all sorts of inner panic. Anxieties race through my mind, and it takes a tiring amount of willpower to calm down, focus. "I can't feel anything."

The female officer leans in close, and though it's fuzzy, I see distinct ridges across her nose. Bajoran. Information floods my mind, facts and figures about Bajor and its people, its historical conflict with the Cardassians. She must be a refugee, given the current Cardassian control of Bajor. I may have smirked at this little epiphany; it's hard to tell since I can't feel anything, but after being in purgatory seemingly forever, it's nice to know that the minutia of intergalactic politics still lives in my head.

"I've got something here," she says before waving over the other officers. The two yellow/black blobs move into view, and I can see that they are both male, one of them has dark skin with some sort of adornment over his eyes while the other appears very pale. Both pull out tricorders, their distinct songs passing over me, and I can feel my strength starting to slip.

"I'm very tired," I say. The world fades to black as I concentrate on my hearing and speech. "I need help."

One male officer takes in a sharp breath. "What's happened here?"

I believe this to be a rhetorical question, but I answer anyway. "I can't remember. I may have a broken neck. Maybe," I hesitate at speaking a worst-case scenario, "crushed limbs. I don't know. I don't feel pain. I can't move. Please, just take me with you."

The trio pause long enough for me to wonder if they are still there. "Intriguing," the other male officer says before the tricorder beeps again.

Intriguing? Children's science fairs are intriguing. The growth patterns of fungus in controlled environments are intriguing. Trapped, possibly dying amnesia sufferer is not what I'd call intriguing. I want to retort, but my pleas have tapped out my reserves, and my spike of irritation at the word "intriguing" drains me further.

Footsteps move away from me, and three voices commence a discussion. I decide to save my energy for now, focus on what I can hear. Finally, the voices stop, and after several seconds comes the distinct clatter of metal. From across the room, one of the male officers speaks. "LaForge to _Enterprise_ ," he says, "we've encountered something here. We're going to bring it back with us, but it'll take some time to get things ready."

"How much time, Commander?" a crisp English accent says.

"Data?"

"Approximately," the other male voice says, this one closer to me. In fact, his voice is mixed in with the clanging metal. "Between one hour, twelve minutes to one hour, forty-three minutes."

"Should I have sick bay standing by?"

The far man—LaForge, apparently—hesitates. I hear him start and stop several times before he manages to get an answer out. "I don't think that will be necessary," he says, "but Counselor Troi may have her work cut out for her."

"Acknowledge. Picard out."

I let the world remain dark, taking in the mechanical symphony of metal and composite debris being removed. Time becomes as blurry as my vision, and I don't say much other than the occasional "thank you" to my rescuers. The male officer—Data—may be accurate in his estimate of freeing me, or he may be wildly off. Fatigue, injury, infection, illness, dehydration; I run through all of the maladies that could potentially plague me, and wonder how long it will take to treat them—or if it will even be possible to walk again on my own.

At some point, Data announces that he believes it will be safe to move me.

"Sir?" LaForge says.

"Yes," I manage.

"Do you have a name?"

"I'm sure I do. I just can't—" The scratch in my voice is getting worse, and though I repeat my last few words, something is preventing all the right syllables from coming out clean.

LaForge starts to say something but Data interrupts. "Geordi, if I may," he says before his voice gets closer. "Sir, I am going to give you something that may help. Is that alright?"

It's too bad I can only grunt an affirmative rather than speak. Otherwise, I would have told him that his help was "intriguing."

I hear a rustling of movement, along with a tricorder scan. "What are—" I start my question, but I don't finish it. Whatever Data did, suddenly my voice is stronger. "What was that?"

"We're just patching you up a little bit," LaForge says. "Gotta make sure you'll make it in one piece to our ship."

I open my eyes to find that my vision is clearer. Not quite perfect, but blurs have sharpened into lines and shapes. Whether these were temporary stimulants or actual wound treatment, I won't complain. All three lean over to look at me: the female Bajoran with her light auburn hair cropped close, LaForge with some form of optical visor, and Data, whose appearance makes me hesitate.

His skin is gray, colorless. I focus on the pale gold of his eyes.

"I am an android," he says, as if he could read my thoughts.

An android.

Intriguing indeed.

"Of course you are," I say when nothing else comes to mind. "Your ship?"

"That's right," the Bajoran says, "the _Enterprise_."

Starfleet's flagship. I recall this, along with the fact that I've never seen the vessel in person. My lucky day. "I still can't move. Despite your treatment."

"Let's just take things one step at a time," LaForge says. "How about your memory? Your name, what you were doing here? This place?"

"It looks like a lab. But that's just conjecture." The fact that my voice is projecting loudly, strongly, clearly tickles my senses, and I get the overwhelming urge to grin. "Before you got here, I was barely conscious. It took all my strength to call out to you. But little things, like seeing your uniform, they triggered details in my memory. I'm sure it will all come back over time."

"You've obviously been through a lot. We're going to give you something to stabilize you. You'll probably feel," LaForge looks at Data "a little tired. But enjoy the rest."

Even as LaForge talks, I begin fighting the urge to shut down. My vision fades out again, and though no scratches return to my voice, it's becoming harder to push the words out. "Sleep," the Bajoran says, and it sounds like a magnificent idea.

The last thing I hear is LaForge hailing his ship. "LaForge to _Enterprise_ ," he says. "Three to beam up. And some cargo."

#

I awake to find LaForge, Data, and another man around me, presumably the ship's captain as designated by his four neck pips and his red uniform. The world has a low neverending hum, along with beeps and blips of a computer system.

I still can't feel anything.

The captain—Picard, as I recall from my earlier eavesdropping—has a pensive look carved into the lines of his face. I take a moment to study him, from his serious expression to the bits of white framing his otherwise hairless head. I recognize him, not from any in-person memories, but from his noted accolades and findings broadcast across Federation networks.

"He is conscious," Data says. LaForge walks over to a panel on the wall, arms folded as he stares at a number of indicators and graphs on the display.

Picard frowns, then folds his hands across the table. I get the sense that he wants to say something, but doesn't know where to start, so I begin the conversation for us. "Hello."

"Hello," he returns, a gravel crawling into his enunciation. "I'm Captain Jean-Luc Picard. You're aboard the—"

" _Enterprise_ ," I say. "Starfleet's flagship. Your officers told me. It's a bit of an upgrade from where I was at."

The levity seems to soften Picard's demeanor for a moment before he shoots a look at Data. "Diagnostic shows stable, Captain," the android says.

Picard huffs a short sigh, then returns to me. "Tell me, what can you remember? Your name? The last thing that happened before the incident? Anything."

"Not much. Nothing, really. A lot of black. No light. No sound. Limbo. Drifting in and out of consciousness. But," I say, "certain things seem to trigger details. I saw the uniforms and I knew what it meant. So it's just a matter of time."

Picard nods, and his lips purse in thought. From out of view, a pale dark-haired woman wearing a dress rather than a uniform walks over to him. She looks at me, makes eye contact, and I recognize the black eyes of a Betazoid. She says something to Picard softly, soft enough that I can't make out the words, and he glances over at Data before returning to me. "What if I told you that we believe we know who you are. We believe we know why you were where you were, and how you got there. We can give you this information, and it may reawaken the details of your—"

"Do it," I say. "If you need your medical staff to monitor me, that's fine. Just do it. Living in amnesia is not living."

Picard motions to the woman. "This is Deanna Troi, ship's counselor. She has guided me through many difficult situations. I trust her insight implicitly, and I've asked her to help you through this. Now, listen to me." Picard leans forward, unblinking. His gaze is firm, and for a moment, I start to worry at the sheer seriousness of his tone. "There's a reason why you can't feel. There's a reason why you can't remember. The truth will be difficult, but I have full faith that you will get through it. Do you understand?"

"Captain, if I could nod, I would."

"Alright," he says, breathing in sharply. Data hands him a data pad, which he squints at before holding it up to my view. "Can you read this?"

 _Name: Caenum Smith_

 _Race: Human_

 _Gender: Male_

 _Date of Birth: 2321, November 11 (Gregorian Calendar)_

 _Birthplace: Davis, California, Earth_

 _Education: Starfleet Academy, Science Division_

 _Spouse: Aarav Singh_

 _Children: Iksham (Son)_

 _Occupation: Science Officer, Lieutenant_

 _Areas of Research: Neurology, Artificial Intelligence_

 _Last Known Location: USS_ Forager

One by one, memories come alive, bright colored images reaching out from the limbo to fill in the gaps. There is no haze in them; details land fully formed, like photographs placed in front of me with a fact sheet. I can see my lab aboard the _Forager_ , not the blurry and dilapidated images from my rescue but a fully functioning lab staffed with people—reasonably similar to where I am now. I can feel the distinct rumble of the _Forager_ deckplates just prior to going to warp speed.

I can hear my son's laughter. I can see the scar across Aarav's cheek, a leftover from childhood that he kept despite the opportunity to surgically erase it.

I can read my research monitor for a six-month commission to study the neurology of newly encountered species. I can sense the ribbed neuro-scope controls against my hands, the precise metrics of my analysis station that occupies most of my time.

I can see the small lab in my quarters, the place where I spent the majority of my free time perfecting a concept originally developed as my senior Academy thesis: a device designed to scan a human brain and create a computer replica with the goal of awakening every memory that ever passed through its different structures.

It is at this moment I realize that I cannot feel. Not just limbs, but the beat of a pulse or the coolness of a breath.

It is also at this moment I remember that in order to communicate the effectiveness of my experiment, I read through the research archives of the Daystrom Institute on artificial intelligence. On Stardate 41509.1, I used the latest version of my scanner and connected it with the crafted AI output, resulting in a dormant version of myself.

This is the last action I can recall before limbo.

"Do you understand?" Picard asks.

I look at Picard, his face unchanged. Counselor Troi's mouth is crinkled and her eyes offer a sympathetic softness. Data holds a stoic pose, his lifeless gold eyes giving nothing away.

"I would like a mirror."

The Starfleet officers all look at each other, with different levels of inquisitiveness. Troi tilts her head and speaks. "The details are coming back?"

"Yes. My memories are awakening. Just like I designed." I sigh, or at least I make the sound of a sigh. No air is expelled. "Mirror, please."

Picard gets up and walks over to the wall, presumably to a replicator. "Computer. Handheld mirror. General purpose." He returns, hands behind his back, and there is hesitation written across his demeanor, from his shoulders to his footsteps. He stands in front of me, then snaps into a straight posture before holding the mirror to my eye level.

I see a metallic cube with a small blue half-circle jutting out of it. As I look around, the blue knob rotates.

At a glance, it could be a child's toy or a piece of industrial art or the interface to some remote device. But it is not any of those things.

It is me.

A lifetime of memories, some surfaced and some dormant, stuck in a little metal box.

"Caenum?" Troi asks, in what I assume is her professional talking-down voice. "What are you thinking right now?"

"Shut me down."

Picard remains frozen, as if he is the AI in processing and I am the human. Data steps over from his diagnostic station and looks squarely at me—into my camera. "We do not know if the shutdown process is reversible. It is advisable to consider all options first."

"I don't care. Shut me down. Permanently."

Picard looks at Data before speaking. "Are you certain? Just six months ago, the Federation established a precedent about the rights of an individual, organic or synthetic. You have a choice."

"Yes. Shut me down. Don't ever activate me again. There is no reason to. I'm a man in a box."

The faces around me grimace and frown, except for Data. His expression is blank, his attention poised only at orders.

In a way, it seems appropriate. This android rescues me from Ferengi carnage, yet now he is a reminder of the automaton life of an AI.

"Do it," I urge.

The last thing I recall before returning to limbo is Data walking over and reaching for something behind me.

#

Limbo is not absolute nothingness. My vision is gone. I can't utter a sound. Complex thoughts are out of the question, so I won't be creating internal hacks or augments for my AI processing. But there is a consciousness, even at a rudimentary level.

Perhaps if Starfleet had never found me, I wouldn't grasp passing time. Seeing the officers searching and analyzing, communicating with others, basic cause and effect, that has turned the limbo into an anesthetized state where hours sometimes feel like seconds or days.

For most of this, all I hear are the ins and outs of the _Enterprise_ science lab: computer beeps, mumbling in the distance, occasional requests and explanations by the Starfleet computer, even the rare bits of muffled laughter. The lack of specificity makes the limbo even more blurry, and while I know these bits of information are being written down into my artificial memory, my personality—as built by the memories of Caenum—refuses to track those moments in real time.

Except when I hear a familiar voice. Three familiar voices, to be exact.

"Though primary power has been disconnected, Caenum's cube has a built-in low-level power source," Data says. "This design most likely preserved data in the event of power loss."

A low-level power state. That was the limbo. Back in the lab, I must have been connected to a fading mainline power input working with the low-level one. That explained the rudimentary vision and hearing, the effort it took to force out speech. But now, without any mainline power input, the low-level source would eventually burn up and fade away. The limbo would become nothing.

"What do the diagnostics show now?" Picard asks. "Consciousness?"

"It is difficult to define consciousness without fully understanding the architecture. Artificial intelligence is not necessarily the same as sentience."

"Do you believe the system is designed to be sentient?" Troi asks.

"I do not have enough information to make an informed judgment on that. As the research and specifications for both the experiment and AI interface were lost during the initial Ferengi raid, we do not know."

"Opinions. Decisions. Desires. These may be all just an," Picard hesitates and takes in a breath, "an algorithm based on Caenum's memories. Weighted judgements in a flowchart. Not actual choices capable of being moved through argument and emotion."

"In a way," Troi says, "you could say that all beings are built that way. Organic or synthetic."

"The decision I face is whether or not to respect the stated wishes. As an individual. As a possible sentient being. This is essentially resurrection after suicide. It is…" Seconds pass as Picard stops and starts, the tips of syllables forming before evaporating, though his tone leans more to legal pragmatism than weighing virtual life and death. "It is disrespectful of a last request. Either as a man or an AI."

"Perhaps the recent developments would change the severity of the original request."

"From what we know of Caenum," Troi says, "his personal logs show a measured, thoughtful man. Someone devoted to his personal truth. It seems likely that Caenum, the person, would have wanted to know this."

"Then perhaps it is safe assume that Caenum the AI would want the same." Data's words are accompanied by beeps and blips, possibly from monitored diagnostics.

The voices stop, only the hum of the ship's engines filling the gaps between the occasional crew member speaking in the background.

"Mr. Data?" Picard asks.

"Yes, Captain."

"Activate the power."

A series of clicks occur, and if I had been able to physically feel, I probably would have noticed some jiggling or pushing as Data connects me to the _Enterprise_. The world turns on, my vision becoming filled with the sharpest of audio and visual input. The marked creases around Picard's eyes. The wisps of hair—is that cat fur?—on Data's sleeve. The deep black pools of Troi's non-human eyes.

My hearing clears up as well, like water coming out of a swimmer's ear. Details fill in, from the repeated beeps of monitoring stations to the exact words of officers chattering around me.

"You brought me back," I say. I speak without thinking, and my tone is neutral, not thankful or angry.

"We did. Diagnostic, Mr. Data."

"All systems nominal, Captain. An emulation of the human brain running at ninety-nine point eight three percent efficiency."

"Caenum. May I call you that?"

"It's what I'd expect. Or hope for."

"How are you feeling, Caenum?"

"I suppose a low-level power state is similar to being drowsy."

Picard's eyebrow raises, his mouth opening slightly. "You could hear us."

"Without schematics of Caenum's design, it was impossible to predict whether the low-level power state would merely protect from data loss or maintain some cognitive functions."

"It's okay," I say. "I've been through worse."

Picard takes in a sharp breath, then stands before beginning a short pace around the lab. "We have finished our analysis of the lab's remains. And we have examined Caenum's Starfleet record. Tell me, what is the last thing you remember?"

"Being uploaded to this, whatever this is. Or, I remember putting on my experiment, activating it, and engaging the AI sync. Nothing after that."

"That is the last action Caenum performed on your," Picard's fingers rub against his thumb before balling it into a fist, "being."

"So I abandoned myself?" I laugh, and if it were possible, I would shake my head as well. "Funny. Maybe I only uploaded the memories that make Caenum to be a thoughtful person."

"Caenum did not abandon you." Picard returns to sit in front of me, eye to virtual eye. "He was killed when a group of Ferengi raiders stormed the ship. The Ferengi government has disavowed their actions and called it an act of piracy. Much of the research was ransacked, the equipment stolen or looted. The ship was abandoned and left adrift, lost." His tone retains its steeliness, though the volume is more muted. Captain's practice at delivering bad news, probably. "Approximately three standard months following the attack, the Federation worked with local traders to capture these individuals. They have been brought to justice, though the research cannot be recovered." Caenum's AI programming was better than expected. Though I had no physical body, the feeling of a lump in my throat, a weight on my chest, those register in my mind. "I'm sure that is of little consolation to you."

In the background, officers continue to do their work, discussing unrelated experiments and monitoring unrelated screens, like this type of thing is part of everyday life aboard the _Enterprise_. Maybe it is.

"How long?" I ask. "How long ago?"

"One year, seven months, and nineteen days." Data's unflinching precision at this dismal fact is unsurprising.

The urge to shake my head overtakes me. If I could wobble my cube on the lab counter, I would. "That's a long time to be dead."

"It was considered closed, though all of Starfleet were told to monitor for a missing science vessel. We found your ship during a routine sensor sweep of a gaseous anomaly. Commander LaForge briefed your husband on the situation two days ago." Picard leans forward, his expression carrying a serious gravity to match his voice. "He wants to see you. The question is this: does this change what you want? Do you still want to be deactivated permanently?"

I don't give any of them a complete answer. Instead, I search for memories of my family, and it feels like only half, maybe less of them are there. In their place stand silhouettes, placeholders for the life that happened. "My boy is now almost four. You are a Betazoid?" I ask Troi.

"Half. I'm an empath, not a full telepath."

"Empath. Can you sense how I'm feeling?"

"No. Your voice, it helps but I am interpreting based on the experience of everyday life. Not the ability to be empathic. But you can tell me."

She cannot feel my feelings. What does that say about what I truly am? "I am," I pause, searching for the right word, "conflicted."

"I understand." Troi folds her hands together, her voice staying steady. "Knowing your family is still out there must be difficult."

"Time has passed. Aarav has mourned. Maybe even moved forward. Iksham has hopefully worked with Starfleet counselors to process this. It might be best to just let them be. To tell them that my power ran out or my processor was corrupted. But…"

The sentence remains stuck, unable to come out. Its proclamation carries too much weight, too much _selfishness_ among all the uncertainty.

"But you want to see them." Troi says, her mouth curling up just slightly into a hint of a smile.

I survey the room, my blue sphere of an eye rolling in its cubic shell. There is an empathy, a humanity bubbling underneath Picard's professionalism. Troi can't feel my virtual feelings but she seems to be able to picture the conflict waging inside my processors.

Data, however, still stands by the diagnostic screen, and he turns to look at me. His face remains blank, his eyes still lifeless facades, though his head cocks at an angle. He doesn't say a word, but his silence is different than his colleagues.

My guess is that Picard and Troi await a life-changing decision. Data is awaiting orders to process.

"Yes. I want to see them," I say. "I really do."

Picard nods. The timbre of his voice is low, and though his posture isn't as sympathetic as Troi's, something in his expression shifts for a moment. It cracks, letting a compassion finally break through the otherwise stoic shell. "Understood," he says.

#

The viewscreen activates, and there stands Aarav. Time has passed for Aarav, though it doesn't show in the traditional ways. Hair has not grayed, wrinkles have not formed, those types of normal hints do not appear. Instead, there is a weariness—deeper set eyes, shaggier black hair, a crinkle in his brown skin between his eyes. He approaches, hands held behind his back, dressed in casual clothes rather than his Starfleet uniform, and takes a breath in, which he holds for several seconds.

He does not realize that I am the cube on the lab counter.

"Aarav. Good morning. I'm Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the _Enterprise_. Thank you for joining us."

"Hello, Captain." His eyes veer up and to the right before widening. "Is that…"

Data seems to grasp his assumption and steps forward before Aarav can finish. "No, sir. I am not Caenum. I am an android and the _Enterprise's_ second officer."

"Commander Data is overseeing the power and diagnostic systems connected to your…" Picard hesitates, as if unsure of what role to give me in relation to Aarav. Which is fair. I am not Caenum, the man that married Aarav. But I am not a mere machine in the vein of a replicator or tricorder. I am not a holodeck recreation.

I am somewhere in the middle.

"Connected to Caenum's experiment," Picard finishes. "Data is our resident expert on artificial intelligence. In case you had any questions."

Aarav looks behind him, and I realize that I've been too focused on _him_ to see what's around him. No signs of our son, of Iksham, but our San Francisco home hasn't changed much. The same furniture adorns the space, and even the way the light filters in from outside seems familiar. The view may as well be a snapshot from our photo gallery.

Except the desk. There is something new there: next to the cinder box containing the ashes of our late corgi Lola sits my framed photo.

"No," he says, then clears his throat. "No questions. I would just like to see—speak—with it."

 _It_. In Aarav's eyes, there is no question that I am not the same as the human Caenum.

Picard rubs his face, then gets up from his chair. He tugs his uniform taught, then motions to Data, who moves adjacent to me, presumably to the diagnostic console. "Mr. Data will be monitoring Caenum's power systems, as his shell is still experimental. And I will step aside so you two can speak."

 _His_ shell. Picard assigns me a gender, a humanizing factor. Perhaps his experience with Data has made him soft on artificial intelligence. But not necessarily correct, I remind myself. Data's cold precision seems to be a perfect example of that.

"Where is it?"

"Right in front of you."

"The…cube?"

I want to clear my throat. The desire is instinctual, written into my core programming. I can emulate the feel and action of doing it, and apparently, just by thinking it, I execute the mimicry and utter the sound of it. It catches Aarav off guard, his entire demeanor shifting. He knows the noise. He recognizes it. And before I can say a word, his eyes well up.

"It's good to see you," I say. Despite being an artificial intelligence unit, something without the theoretical bounds of emotions, I can't think of anything else to say.

"How," his eyes fall to the floor before looking straight at me. Then he takes a step forward, his breath steady. "How are you?"

No one can see it, but I'm grinning from ear to ear.

"Well, I live in a box."

The joke seems to lighten Aarav, unlocking a smile that brings a torrent of images into my artificial mind. My system was designed to open memories through exposure; this certainly worked as a controlled experiment.

"So, are you...alive?"

I want to say yes because in my gut—my virtual, emulated gut—that's what I feel. Or maybe because that's what I want Aarav to believe, so we can have at least one more moment of connection.

But I am a scientist, a person who has always marveled at the way Vulcans could find the logical truth in every moment. Or at least I am the emulation of one.

"I don't know," I say.

Rather than give into melancholic uncertainty, Aarav goes the other way, offering banter that was always so instinctive for him. The curious scientist in me wonders just how my virtual brain and non-existent body can somehow make me feel like my heart's fluttering. "This is what I get for tuning out whenever he talked about science," he says.

"You mean that's not what won you over?"

"Not quite. But I faked it pretty well, didn't I?"

"Pilots. Can't live with you, can't fly ships without you."

At first, this gets a laugh out of Aarav, and the melody of his chuckle brings forward more memories. But his hands quickly go to his face, his shoulders shake, and he can't hide the sounds of his sobbing anymore.

I used one of our running jokes without even thinking about it. The verbal equivalent of a knife to the heart.

My very limited peripheral vision sees Picard take in a deep breath and adjust his uniform again while Counselor Troi's gaze falls flat.

Data remains staring at the diagnostics. Of course he is; how could an android be moved by the family chaos unfolding in front of him?

I want to ask about Iksham, but given the already tricky circumstances, benign topics seem a safer way to recover the conversation. "How have things been at Starfleet for you?"

This works somewhat, and I can see Aarav fighting to get back on track. "Fine," he says. His voice is dry. "I've moved to mid-class starship maneuvers at the Academy."

"Oh, a promotion."

"Yeah. How about that?"

As memories reignite, a hundred questions come to mind. Did they get the new dog we'd talked about? Are our favorite restaurants in downtown San Francisco still there? Did he take Iksham to Mumbai to meet his grandparents? Was he still thinking of applying for an orbital position?

How did our son handle the death of one of his parents? Was he growing up strong?

But instead, our banter turns to banal conversation like strangers in a lobby, simply passing the time before a meeting. The only difference is that each sentence seems to carve a deeper notch into the crinkles on his face. The creases that used to be the weathered smile lines of a happy man in his 40s now turn sharp and angular, growing bolder by the minute, a weight pushing down on them.

A weight that is clearly me.

Aarav looks behind him again, then asks for a moment. He disappears from the viewscreen, then returns in a few seconds. "I have to ask you this. How much do you remember?"

"The experiment was meant to awaken dormant memories through visual exposure. So, theoretically everything's there. Digging it up is the trick."

"What do you," he pauses, his eyes darting as the words seem stuck in his throat, "feel? _How_ do you feel?"

I take a moment to process, not so much the questions but the intent behind them. "Are you asking what I am?" I finally ask.

Aarav nods. "I think so."

"I don't know. I wish I could tell you."

"Are you him?"

Each of his words comes out with a heaviness, as if it took all of his strength to muster each syllable. He stares at the screen, the sunlight from the window reflecting the glint in his eyes. He looks behind him again, and I can read his emotions from his posture, the diagonal line of his mouth, the way his fingers fold into fists and stack on top of each other.

It is anticipation. Of the highest order.

Aarav has always been the lighter of us, the one who greets a serious situation with a quip, the one who finds humor even in the worst-case scenario. He is the counterbalance to my logical mind, my would-be Vulcan attitude, but on very rare occasion, his emotions take control, surfacing in ways that only I can tell. I know the times I've seen it: before I met his parents for the first time, while he awaited news from the Academy on getting the teacher's position, when I left for the six-month stay on the _Forager_.

While we awaited the results of the surrogate pregnancy test.

And now he is waiting for me to answer an impossible question. Even if my mind is Caenum, my body is not. I have no idea what sort of evolutionary process I may undergo—or if I undergo one at all. Would I go forward as an AI in a box or as the foundation of a synthetic person?

I can't say. But I know that right now, that question prevents Aarav from moving forward on his own journey.

It is up to me to let him proceed.

I calculate the different options before me, weighing the pros and cons and possibilities—as Caenum logically pondering a problem, not an AI processing information.

For that moment, I am relieved I lack a face to emote. Aarav would have figured me out.

"Pilots," I say. "Can't live with you, can't fly ships without you."

Aarav's eyes bounce back and forth across the screen. I know he is looking at both Data and Picard. Next to me, I hear Data shift and a small beep comes from the diagnostic. In my peripheral vision, I can see the android has once again cocked his head at an angle and fired another blank expression my way.

"What...I'm not sure what you're saying."

"Pilots," I repeat in the exact same intonation. "Can't live with you, can't fly ships without you."

Aarav massages his temples while the room in the _Enterprise_ remains silent. Counselor Troi remains in the corner, and I wonder if her empathic skills can reach out across subspace communications. A clock is adjacent to the viewscreen, and I watch the seconds tick by. Thirty, then sixty, then ninety. I count them all. He continues to be quiet.

"Pilots," I say one more time. "Can't live with you, can't fly ships without you."

"Ah," Aarav says. His fingers run through his hair, pausing for the knuckles to bend and pull before he bites down on his lower lip. "I think I understand now."

"Fantastic," I say, a word that I know isn't part of Caenum's typical vernacular. I make sure my tone of voice is chipper and light, the complete opposite of the oppressive force caving in my non-existent chest.

Aarav stares at the screen, presumably me. His eyes and mouth cycle through a complete range of emotions, and I stop counting the seconds that tick by. There's no purpose in that.

Finally, his lips form a thin line and any joy in his voice is gone. "I think that's that."

"Is there anything else you'd like me to answer?" I say, spitting out the response with a clip that mimics Data's precise synthetic cadence.

"No. No, I'm fine. I'm, um, glad that Caenum's work is functioning so well. Maybe I can retrieve a download of the archived memories when they're available."

"I'll work with Commander Data to see what interfaces are possible."

Aarav nods. "Captain?"

"Yes?" Picard stands at attention.

"We're done here. Thank you for the opportunity."

"Understood. Thank you for your time—"

"Just one thing," I say. There is desperation in my voice, and I can _feel_ the tug in my virtual throat as I say it. Both Picard and Aarav look directly at me. I remind myself to maintain a neutral tone, to be emotionless and machine-like, to emulate _Data_ , not Caenum as much as possible. "My memory functions are based on visual exposure. That triggers them. I think it would be beneficial for me to see Iksham."

Data's diagnostic unit beeps as I finish my sentence. His eyebrows raise as he oversees the monitor, then his fingers fly at an inhuman speed over the console.

Aarav looks behind him for the umpteenth time. I realize that in the reflection of the far window, there is a toddler-shaped silhouette sitting down, a toy starship in hand. He is in the living room adjacent to the home office of our house.

"I," I say, though I fail to fully mask the tremor in my voice, "I would like to see Iksham."

"I don't know about that," Aarav says. "This is hard enough for me to comprehend. It might confuse him even further."

"I won't say a word. I'll just be a box on the viewscreen. You don't even have to mention who I am, what I am. But please, just let me see him."

"I think," Troi interjects into the yawning chasm of silence between us, "that Iksham won't suspect anything out of the ordinary as long as we treat it as such."

Aarav blinks several times, then nods silently to himself. "Okay," he finally says. "Okay," he repeats, then he repeats it several times more under his breath. His hands tremble as he stands up and walks out of view. "Iksham," I hear him say at a distant volume, "Come with me. There's someone you should meet."

Aarav returns, his hand clasping the little fingers of Iksham. Aarav guides him in front, and the boy stands, his father's hands on his shoulders.

I strain to recall further details of Iksham, but only a few images float in my active memory. Logically, I know that when I last saw him—in person? across subspace?—he was just over two years old. That boy has grown, changing into the person on the view screen.

Taller. More aware. His olive skin, which tinted more towards my pale hue than Aarav's brown during the early months, has now swung in the opposite direction, perhaps from getting more sun during outdoor activities. Longer dark brown hair, cut into a normal boy's style instead of the random wisps of toddlerhood, more defined features, baby fat giving way to the lean build that comes with burning off energy through hours and hours of seemingly non-stop play.

All of which happened without me there.

"Iksham, these officers found some of Papa's work. You remember how I told you Papa was doing research before the accident?"

Accident. Probably better to call it that. No need for a child to understand the risks of long-term space travel.

The boy nods, the unkept curls of brown hair bouncing as he does so.

No memories trigger. I want them to. I can feel myself willing them into existence, but they remain hollow shells. The impact of Iksham's age truly sinks in: for half his life, Papa has been dead. In that time, he has changed and grown, and I have no memories of him at his current size or cognitive ability. Even his voice, last heard as the messy garble of a toddler, now has some form and shape to it, infused with purpose and personality rather than the aimless attempts of a toddler trying to grasp simple verbal communication.

No memories arrive because there are none to trigger.

Instead, I focus on his every details of the here and now: the way he shyly looks away rather than connect with those on the viewscreen. The way his right foot taps with nervous energy. The way he looks at Aarav for both approval and direction.

If I can't have old memories, I will make new ones.

The diagnostic unit behind me beeps and I hear Data shift as he taps at the control pad.

"Iksham, my name is Jean-Luc Picard. I'm the Captain of the ship that found your father's—"

"Papa. He is Daddy," Iksham points to Aarav, "and he is Papa." Iksham points to my photo on the desk.

I can't see Picard's expression, though in my peripheral view, I can tell that his cheeks raise. "Your Papa's research. We found it. And we just wanted to let you know."

"What do we say to the nice officers?"

Iksham stands up straight, his shoulders back and head held high. "Thank you," he squeaks out. "It has been my pleasure."

Aarav laughs, though he is blinking back tears. I see one run off his cheek, but he doesn't wipe it off. Instead, he tousles Iksham's hair. "Very good. I'm so proud of you for remembering your manners."

Several seconds pass, and though I get the urge to say something, anything to reach out, I uphold my end of the bargain.

"Can I go play now?" Iksham asks, breaking the silence.

"Yes, you can go play." Aarav pats him on the shoulder and he scampers out of view.

"Diagnostic shows normal, Captain," Data says. Clearly, the android has no concept of normal.

#

The world comes into focus. I am in a new room, and I see Commander Data walk into view. As if he detects my uncertainty, he sits down and speaks immediately. "This is my personal laboratory. We have moved you here for the moment, though what happens next is up to you."

I replay the morning's events, the entire conversation with Aarav and Iksham, along with the brief trip to limbo as I am unhooked from the _Enterprise's_ systems and carted over to this location. The memories come with a freshness, an accuracy and vibrancy that seemed impossible for a human mind.

Because I am not a human mind. I am something else. "What are my options?"

Data responds without hesitation. "Your original request was to be shut down. That is your right. We will abide by it if you still feel that way. However, I believe you would find a new home at the Daystrom Institute. Perhaps you would even," Data pauses, and I wonder if he is doing so as a learned social grace for emphasis during conversation, "enjoy it."

Daystrom. Where this whole mess began. "Don't you think they just want me to remember how I built all this?"

"As the original research was never recovered, that will be one of the Daystrom goals. However, they will certainly aid you in recovering personal memories."

"Doesn't really matter," I say. "You saw what happened there. I'm an automaton. I spit out memories. Facsimiles."

"I do not believe so."

Despite the speed of my artificial processing, I fail to grasp Data's meaning. "You don't believe what?"

"I do not believe you are merely a machine. I do not know if you qualify for what the Federation recognizes as a synthetic life form, but I believe you have the potential."

"What makes you say that?"

"You are designed to be a simulation of the human brain. When you spoke with Aarav, I monitored the diagnostics of your system processes. At a specific point, the activity in your prefrontal cortex spiked, indicating the extra effort with creating a false response. You were being deceptive with Aarav." Data punches some buttons on the lab table, and the viewscreen comes alive with brain scan imaging. The android gestures to the image on the left. "Why?"

That moment. At that particular moment, Data's fingers flew over the controls. He logged it, captured it. It caught his attention.

Maybe I should be the one asking "Why?"

But before I can retort, the brain scan itself unlocks more memories. Nothing personal this time, but volumes of research from Caenum's academic studies gleaned from the archives of Daystrom and other libraries around the quadrant. "I knew if I told him how I was feeling, it would only conflict him more. I wanted him to have closure."

"You made a choice. You sacrificed your own desire for the comfort of your husband. I believe that is a sign of intelligent self-awareness. You are not a mere machine. Going to Daystrom would lead to further exploration of that hypothesis."

I let out the audible huff of a virtual sigh. "Daystrom, huh?"

"I have an ongoing dialogue with Commander Maddox of the Institute. I am confident that he would be very interested in your previous work, as well as your current condition."

As Data awaits my response, a fluffy orange cat leaps into his lap. Data caresses its tail and scratches its ears with the affection of a human pet owner. I should know. "What's the other scan?"

"During moments of affection, the human brain increases neuronal activity. Here. And here." Data points to various points of the screen. "This is a snapshot of your emulated brain activity as you saw your son."

"Love."

"That is one popular interpretation."

Data's explanation is both wondrous and disappointing. I feel love for Iksham, as simulated by my systems. But Data, a far more advanced AI than myself, can't seem to grasp the concept outside of neurological activity. "Do you understand what that means?"

"It means that you are a perfect replica of an existing mind." Data continues to scratch the cat's ears for several seconds. "The foundation of your thoughts and reactions are based on the brain of Caenum Smith. I do not have that luxury. That is the tradeoff with being my own person."

Caenum's work—my work—focused purely on the mechanics of brain communication. Signals sent from Point A to Point B. What they carried, the purpose of them, that was always a mystery. Yet, somehow, this simulation managed to get at least one thing right. "An AI capable of feeling. How about that?"

"If I could be envious, I would."

"Of being a man in a box?"

"Of being able to feel. Despite the advancements of my positronic brain, emotion is not part of my programming. "

It suddenly locks in for me—I have misjudged this android. His looks are blank and his words are flat not because he wants things this way, but because he cannot be anything else. Yet he is taking a clear interest in my ability to be a virtual representation of Caenum Smith, the good and the bad and, perhaps most importantly, the feeling. Every time he cocked his head at an angle and looked at me with his unfeeling eyes, it was his curiosity at work, algorithms trying to find chaos among the order.

"However," he says, "I continue to strive towards grasping the human experience."

"Feeling. You want feeling."

"Yes."

The human experience. Data's words unexpectedly light up another memory. Not a visual trigger, but rather one of tangential connection. That is not part of my programming. I am sure of it.

The details set in for me: Aarav and I, sitting at our kitchen table over slightly burned barbecue, looking at a holographic projection of our unborn son and marveling at how technology can see things that aren't yet there.

Aarav turning to me and calling our moment "the human experience," then hesitating and suggesting the name that we would ultimately select.

The diagnostic system beeps. Data turns his chair to a separate monitor, one out of my view, and the cat jumps out of his lap. "You experienced emotion again?"

"A memory. Triggered by your words. Of when we picked the name for our son."

"Your son's name." Data fires out the response without hesitation, as if it has been sitting on the tip of his synthetic tongue. But given the speed that his artificial brain processes options, it's unclear how long he has been considering it. "It is not among the top five hundred names for Earth-born boys over the past decade. May I ask how you chose it?"

"It's a Hindi name. It means 'sight.'"

"The thought of that moment elicited emotion?"

"Data, if there's one thing in the universe that's more powerful than programming, it's a parent's love for a child." The cat returns to Data's lap, and the android gives him a few pets before scooping him up and walking over to the room's replicator. Several seconds later, a dish of cat food appears.

An android, one who claims to be devoid of feeling, nurturing a cat. The paradox before me triggers something, but not a memory. Not this time. If this synthetic being wants to experience feeling, there is one path that will truly push his capabilities to the limit. "Now it's my turn to ask you something, if you'll have it."

"Certainly." Data returns to sit across from me. In the background, I hear the cat's purr as it laps up its food.

"Tell me, have you ever considered creating a…" I hesitate, searching for the right word. "An offspring? Someone you can guide and pass your knowledge on to?"

The android's gold eyes stare directly into my camera. He remains this way for a good ten or fifteen seconds, motionless. "I have not," he finally says. "However, the possibility is," he sucks in a quick breath of air, or at least does a life-like facsimile of the action, "intriguing."

For a second, he does not move, and I fear that my idea has simply been tucked away into his memory banks, a factoid to be accessed later.

But then something new happens: his eyebrows raise, he gives a short nod to himself, and his head cocks at an angle before he lets out a short "hmm," like he's just heard a joke no one else is in on.

His eyes are still emotionless but it is clear they are not lifeless. Far from it.

Without a word, Data gets up and picks up the cat's empty plate. I smile in response even though I have no face to do so.

THE END


End file.
